Mr. C. F. Holder.
My dear Sir,—In answer to your questions as to my opinion relative to the intelligence of the elephant, I will jot down a few notes that may interest you.
This animal is to my mind one of the most intelligent of the brute creation. I am led to this conclusion from what I have actually seen, and from reliable information given me by persons who have devoted a lifetime to studying their habits and life-history generally. I think that in elephants, as in other animals,—and we see even in man himself,—there is a great difference in the amount of intelligence they possess.
A friend of mine, who owned many of these animals, placed an old tame male that appeared sick, in a pasture, where he had also some horses and sheep feeding, thinking it would recuperate “Dick,” who was a great favorite. The whole pasture was well fenced in, and the gate was securely bolted. One morning when I was visiting my friend, we were surprised to see “Dick” let himself in by the back-gate; and he warned us of his presence by trumpeting. His master went to him, and asked what he wanted. The beast at once took up a pitcher containing water which was near by, and poured some of it on the ground, attempting to sip a few drops of it with his trunk. His master, seeing what he wanted, gave him water, and told him to go back. Thinking the gate must have been left open, and perhaps the sheep and horses straying out, we followed, but to our surprise found the gate shut, and not only bolted, but the bolt turned up in the little slot so that it should not be easily opened. We waited, curious to see what Dick would do. As soon as he reached the gate, he deliberately moved the bolt, and passed into the field, then turning round, he re-adjusted the bolt as well as I could have done it, and marched off contentedly to a favorite corner under some trees.
I have seen my friend quietly call individuals by their name out of the herd; and in one instance, a female, “Maggie,” was called, and told to take me on her back, which she did, helping me up carefully with her trunk. I have seen an elephant draw a cork from a bottle of claret, and drink the contents without spilling a drop. I saw four or five called singly by name from their grazing-ground, form in line, and bow, and kneel before a group of ladies, and then march back in as regular order at the word of command as a file of soldiers.
Hundreds of elephants are employed in the government service in the three presidencies of India,—Calcutta, Bombay and Madras. They go through a regular routine, and know their hours for work and recreation as well as the man who watches the clock. When the bell sounds in the morning, they take up their line of march, to the lumber-yards for instance, where vast piles of beams and planks are stored. As soon as they arrive, each takes up his work, left from the day before. Great logs and beams are rolled along by the aid of the trunk, and, when near the pile, are lifted, two elephants to each beam, and hoisted into place, when they walk round and adjust their work with as much precision as a man would use with a plumb-line. When the usual hour for quitting work arrives, nothing can induce the creatures to go on; and you can’t fool them on the time either, by ringing the bell late. Off they go to get their afternoon bath, where they will lie and wallow in the muddy water for hours. Their varied works require cute intelligence, not mere instinct, any more than you can attribute the good paving of a roadway by a poor laborer, who knows his business, though he may not be able to read or write, to instinct.
A circumstance was related to me by my friend, Gen. E. W. de Lansing Lowe, who was all through the campaign in India during the Sepoy rebellion. He said he had a very intelligent elephant that he constantly rode on, and as it was so hot they mostly travelled morning and evening. During the war, they came about the dusk of evening to a small bridge that spanned a deep ravine with water at the bottom. As soon as the elephant came to this bridge, no inducement could make him cross it. After some delay, finding all persuasion useless, the general determined to examine the structure. They found the enemy had cut away the supports of the bridge; and, had the elephant stepped on to it, the whole party would have been precipitated into the gulf below.
We have a notable instance of the sagacity of these animals at the time Barnum’s circus was in Bridgeport a few years ago. A fire broke out in some sheds adjoining the tents, and it was feared the stables would catch the flames. They began to pull down the sheds, when some one suggested to bring out two elephants. This was done, and the animals set to with a will to pull down the place. They evidently at once took in the situation. They not only tore down the place, but threw the timbers so that they should not touch the tents, and beat out the flames. Now, if this does not show almost human reason, what does? They were put to the work on the spur of the moment, and not only performed it as if used to it, but actually did it more intelligently than many men would have done in such perilous circumstances. Had they not done so, as water was short, the loss of life to man and beast, and of property, might have been enormous.
If you could only interview Barnum, he could tell you more of the intelligence of the elephant than any man living.
I could relate numerous other incidents I have seen and been informed of; but enough has been said, I think, to prove how highly I think of the intelligence, sagacity, or whatever other name you may give it, of this unwieldly pachyderm.[1]